


long term effects

by octoaliencowboy



Series: Moments [9]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Grayson (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Rated T for language, Some hurt/comfort, tenderness without plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 10:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19082911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octoaliencowboy/pseuds/octoaliencowboy
Summary: Done from the prompt, “an old injury acting up”





	long term effects

The room is dark and silent, the blinds down, lights off, door closed. His pillow is soft, and warm now from where he has been lying on it for a good hour. Under any other circumstances these would be the ideal conditions to take a nap, but Dick’s head hurts so bad he really can’t appreciate any of it. Even just thinking makes his poor, battered brain screech in protest. 

 

His head is pounding so badly it feels like rocks smashing his skull open from the inside out. It’s so all-encompassing that he struggles to breathe through it. Dick hasn’t moved at all since he woke up an hour ago. Hasn’t budged an inch. He thinks if he does, he might throw up. 

 

A growing sliver of light interrupts the blissful darkness of the room as the bedroom door creaks open. The pitter patter sound of small feet on the wood floors tells of a certain someone approaching the bed. 

 

“Good morning, papa.” Hafsa whispers from the edge of the mattress. Dick cracks one eye open and immediately regrets it when his vision swims and his headache spikes. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses the heel of his hand to his forehead, groaning. 

 

“Hey, sweetie.” He mumbles into his pillow. 

 

“Is today another bad brain day?” Hafsa asks. 

 

“Yeah,” Dick groans again. Talking hurts, but it hurts more to move, so any nodding of the head is right out. He chances opening his eye again (just one, because one side of his face is still hidden in his pillow) to see his daughter’s concerned expression. 

 

“I’ll go get baba.” The nine year old pats him on the shoulder and turns to leave the room, leaving the door open behind her. The light from the hallway, no longer obstructed by her shadow, hurts his eyes, and he closes them again. 

 

Dick bites down a sigh. He hates it when this happens. It’s so stupid. Jason had the right idea, wearing a helmet. Dick should have been wearing a helmet this whole damn time. But he never did, and he never learned, and now he has to deal with shit like this. 

 

Even more than that, he hates worrying Hafsa. 

 

Less than a minute later the door creaks further open, and he hears two people moving around the room through the throbbing in his skull. 

 

“Hey, papa,” Hafsa lightly shakes his shoulder. “This is for you. She’ll help you feel better.”

 

Dick opens his eyes again to see what Hafsa is offering him. She’s holding her favourite giraffe stuffie in her outstretched hands, eyes wide and earnest. He smiles and accepts it, tucking the worn toy under his chin, genuinely touched. “Thanks, sweetie.” He pats her on the head and she beams. 

 

“Hafsa, why don’t you go play with your sister for a while? I’ll take care of papa.” Tiger says from the foot of the bed. 

 

“Okay!” Hafsa bounds out of the room (suspiciously high and steps suspiciously far apart— she’s not allowed to fly in the house but that doesn’t stop her from trying) and closes the door behind herself, plunging the room back into darkness. Dick sighs. He holds the giraffe closer. 

 

“Dick,” Tiger kneels into view, laying a large, warm hand on Dick’s back. On the side table, he sets down a bottle of painkillers and a tall glass of water. “Are you nauseous?” 

 

Dick has to take a second to figure it out, concentrating on what’s happening with the rest of his body and not just the angry lumberjack in his brain. Eventually he mumbles, “yeah.” 

 

“I assumed you would be. That’s why I brought a bucket.” Tiger holds up a medium sized bucket that they usually use for mopping that Dick didn’t notice before. “Can you sit up?” 

 

“Don’ wanna…” 

 

“Just for a minute. Just long enough to take some pills and drink some water, then you can lie back down again. I promise.”

 

“Mmh.” 

 

“Here, I’ll help you. Just take deep breaths, and go slowly. The bucket is here if you need it.”

 

If he doesn’t comply then Tiger will just pull him upright himself, and Dick knows this, because Tiger is right, and he  _ does _ need those pills and that water. So, slowly, like Tiger said, he pushes himself up onto his elbows and lifts himself away from the pillow. He doesn’t get much further than that by himself, but it’s okay, because that’s when Tiger puts one hand on his shoulder and one in his chest and carefully props him up so he’s sitting back in his heels. 

 

When Dick sways, Tiger is there to steady him. The room spins, and Dick blinks against the sudden, violent protests his head is giving at being upright. After taking a minute to regain his senses, he holds his hand out for the painkillers. Tiger places two in his hand. 

 

“One at a time,” Tiger reminds him. He places one on his tongue and, with Tiger’s help steadying the glass, manages to swallow it without too much trouble. He tries to do the same with the second one, but gags as it goes down. Quickly Tiger holds out the bucket and Dick hunches over it. He dry-heaves for a moment, but luckily nothing comes up and he doesn’t lose the painkillers he’d just taken. 

 

Tiger runs soothing circles on his back as Dick reels, his sudden jarring motion causing his head to spin wildly again.  

 

“Fuck, I hate this…” Dick whispers into the empty bucket. 

 

“These episodes have been getting more frequent lately. You should think about seeing a doctor.” Tiger’s voice is deep, smooth and low, and in literally any other circumstances the sound would soothe Dick and fill him with a warm, fuzzy feeling, like so many other things that Tiger does, but right now all any sound does is grate painfully in his ears. 

 

“I know. Fuck, I know, but I don’t wanna think about that now.” 

 

“Fair.” 

 

Tiger helps him lie back down on his front, because if he didn’t then Dick would have probably simply collapsed down onto the bed and given himself another damn concussion. Tiger has had a warm, damp cloth draped over his forearm this whole time, but Dick doesn’t register it until it’s placed on the back of his neck. Tiger’s fingers are gentle where he brushes Dick’s hair out of the way. Tiger is always so gentle with him, and even after all this time, it makes Dick’s heart flutter. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Does anyone else ever think about the fact that this whole Ric Grayson amnesia plot like garbage is literally not the first time dick has been shot in the fucking head?


End file.
